


Shame and Paralysis

by salishseaselkie



Series: Of Lambs and Lions [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, Guilt, Mages and Templars, Redemption, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5757244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salishseaselkie/pseuds/salishseaselkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was meant to touch on Cullen's more problematic side. Perhaps someday I will do more with it, but for now it is a start.</p></blockquote>





	Shame and Paralysis

Cullen had many duties with the Inquisition. Troop movements were his to review, strategies were his to command, and advising the Inquisitor as to where their armies should turn.

There was one other obligation that had come to light in recent weeks, following his departure from Kirkwall. An obligation that…he was unsure as how to approach.

He bore much of the guilt for the abuse that went on in Kirkwall. He had been instrumental in keeping the peace in the city long after Hawke’s departure, but there had been little he could do for the mages – they were either on the run with Hawke or taken under Merrill’s wing after she evacuated the elves from the Alienage. The citizens had made it clear they would not tolerate magic – leftover prejudice from Meredith’s rule.

And he did nothing to quell their anger. He had never done anything to stem the tide of their abuse. So the mages fled, and rightly so. But what could one man do? What could Cullen have done?

No longer Knight-Captain, he was the Inquisition’s general. He had the resources to aid the refugees that were calling for escort back to the safety of the Inquisition. All apostates. All seeking aid from Inquisitor Trevelyan.

What he would have usually done was sent the aid, no questions asked. But they were _mages_. _Kirkwall_  mages. And he had been Meredith Stannard’s right hand. Any aid he sent would be suspect and unwanted, and if they were suspicious of his aid, they would be volatile under the care of his men.

Thus, he went to the one person he’d hoped he would never have to discuss the matter with.

Niamh was at her desk, her staff on the flat of it. Cullen tread carefully as he approached her. He felt sheepish, foolish, _childish_. She knew he had done ill in his complacency – he had told her so himself – but to still struggle in aiding those who _clearly_ needed it? It was weakness in the highest degree. But he was paralyzed.

She was fixing the blade at the end – it had come loose on an excursion to the Hinterlands. When she heard his boot steps approaching tentatively, she looked up, blue eyes wide and expectant. Her mouth turned up in a greeting smile, winsome and loving in every way he did not deserve.

But he had to try.

She asked him, a coquettish glint in her eye, “What can I do for you, Commander?” He pressed his lips together as he took the seat across from hers.

He sighed as he looked at the parchment in his hand. It was crinkled and worn from being passed from hand to hand. Not unlike himself. “Niamh, I…” He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to find the words he’d been scrambling for since he’d received the missive. He sighed again, heavier this time, and the breath of it took longer to escape his lips. He scrubbed his neck. “I…I was alerted to a band of apostate refugees seeking sanctuary from the Red Templars.” Niamh smiled politely; the Inquisitor taking the place of the woman on her face.

She nodded. “Very well, Cullen. I trust you to send whatever troops necessary to fetch them.” Her eyes returned to her blade as she asked coyly, “Anything else I can help you with?” Her eyes shone up at him, teasing, but they fell as she realized he was not in a teasing mood. “Cullen?” The tools were placed on her desk and she sat up. “What is wrong?” Her hands folded and went to her lap – he had her full attention now.

And now he felt even more stupid. He scowled down at the parchment and stood quickly. “Never mind. I shan’t disturb you further. I’ll see you at dinner, Niamh.” He turned to leave, but the padding of feet followed him and she grasped his hand in hers, stopping him from leaving.

“Tell me,” her insistent voice coaxed, but all he could hear was the shame of it, the shame of his fallacies, the shame of what he had done too large to do anything about. How could he atone for what he’d done? How could he ask her to feel compassion for him?

He turned and kissed her forehead. “I will dispatch the troops, as you said.” He pulled away and set to sending out the order.

* * *

His captain did not bat an eye when he organized the escort from the Storm Coast. Cullen felt the crease in his brow grow deeper and deeper as the day went on. By the time dinner was served, he was not sure the escort would return. Had he not been the most vocal when the advisors had spoken out about Niamh’s decision to ally with the rebel mages? Had he not garnered a reputation for hating all who possessed the gift of magic?

He hardly touched his goulash, so lost he was in his thoughts and fears. When Niamh’s hand slid over his forehead gently to feel for fever, he hardly noticed. Her sapphire eyes peered into his, her brows pinched together. He tried for a smile, but it was weak and not at all assuring, and he knew it as she shooed him away from the table and dragged him up to her room.

He was sat on her bed, and when her eyes met his, they were stern. She sat next to him, legs folded and her hands tucked in her lap, waiting for him to speak.

She did this when she wanted him to talk. She would sit and wait and watch like a hawk, but she wouldn’t speak. She was always talking, always telling people how happy she was, how angry some slack-jaw in Val Royeaux had made her, how sad she felt for the elves in the Emerald Graves, or how frightened she had been when taking on her first dragon.

But she knew. She knew how to make people talk. And silence made people talk more than anything else she knew. Silence drew out the truth from people like a cloth over a bleeding wound. The empty spaces between threads begged to be filled.

“You know I wasn’t a shining example of justice in Kirkwall.” He shattered the silence, and it felt good to break it, to fill the empty spaces with his baritone. “I told you how I never…never questioned Meredith, never investigated the treatment of the mages, and I…I let a lot of behavior slide on the behalf of the templars.” He glanced at her face, which was stoic and waiting. She was not satisfied.

He sighed. “The refugees…are from Kirkwall. Or they were. They…they know me. They know of me. They know of my position under Meredith. They likely despise me.” He hung his head, his hands dangling in his open lap. “I objected to the alliance to the mages when you brought them from Redcliffe. Thus far, they have demonstrated themselves to be fervent and capable allies. I have been proved wrong about the mage cause time and again.” He looked up at her eyes again, and this time they were softer, pained. “You, you were an exception to the rule. You were the one I could have faith in. But even that isn’t fair…” She lifted a hand to his cheek, caressing the stubble and curling at his jawline.

Her eyes pierced, her lids narrowing as if she was trying to penetrate him with her heart. She murmured, “Cullen, if you think you are the only one guilty of hate and fear in this war, then I would beg you to look outside. Take a look at Fiona, even. She allied with Tevinter magisters and she was the one who pushed for the Circle to separate - a choice that was not the overwhelmingly popular choice. Fear makes us stupid and angry. We have to be better.” The other hand redirected his wandering gaze, and he looked at her.

She said it in that matter-of-fact way that could make or break his day. “If they hate you, the first step is to offer the balm and hope for the best.” She placed a kiss on his lips, soft and assuring. Then she pressed her forehead to his. “You have done all you can for them. Give yourself some credit for that much, and then decide what to do next. If they hate you, what will you do about it?” Cullen looked off, towards the edge of the bed. She clasped a hand to his arm. “Cullen, my love, what will you do?”

He scrubbed his neck. “I don’t know. I suppose it would be prudent to accept it…accept punishment.”

But Niamh would not allow such apathy. “You will give them a reason to trust you again. No matter how long it takes. You and I were not on good terms when first we met, but we’ve grown to trust each other. Give them that same faith. You will be rewarded.” Her hands dropped to her lap. “And if you ask me, I’m not the exception. I’m the first step. It’s up to you to take the next.” Cullen smiled as she looked upon him, as if he were a lost pilgrim gazing upon a vision of Andraste. _Herald of Andraste indeed._

In Cullen’s heart, he wondered if such a thing would be fruitful. He wondered at her idealism, her courage, and the cynical call of his battered soul told him his efforts would be in vain.

Still, he answered, “All right.” And that was a promise he meant to keep.

The shame loomed ahead of him, like a great, impenetrable wall. But for his own piece of mind and for the good of his soul - and for the good of his love for the woman he did not deserve, who gave him purpose, who gave him faith - he would try.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to touch on Cullen's more problematic side. Perhaps someday I will do more with it, but for now it is a start.


End file.
